A cutting edge pressed to a river's fount,
Or a cannon to the temple of the mind;
It matters not, the end's the same,
To return to you, my world unkind.
My final friend, there on the horizon
Fading fast into the darkest light;
I've found my solace only in
The cold, the empty, the hated night.
So why should I strive to stay upon my feet
When every living soul strives to bring me down?
Why do I waste my years trying to live
In what I hate? This place is not my own.
A hollared breath, a fetid touch of lips;
They are not for me, and never were.
As the years march on, I yearn to die,
Not to live like a wretched cur.
This is such a hateful place, our home.
My eyes have seen spilled innocent blood
And purest souls burnt to black,
Horrors abated not even by a Biblical flood.
And I hold my tired life in my hands,
And look to see how much it matters,
For no one even hears my words;
Tearing up my soul, a robe in tatters.
I begin to see the tides of hell,
And now I lay me down to sleep.
My life was such a fleeting instance,
Not even God begins to weep.